Black Crush
by snapmagic
Summary: Wilson doesn't know what he's in for tonight. HousexWilson. Slash. Rated for sex and language.
1. one

_I like the cool and heft of it, dull metal on the palm,_

_And the click, the hiss, the spark fuming into flame,_

_Boldface of fire, the rage and sway of it, raw blue at the base_

_And a slope of gold, a touch to the packed tobacco, the tip_

_Turned red as a warning light, blown brighter by the breath._

_The pull and pump of it, and the paper's white_

_Smoothed now to ash as the smoke draws back, drawn down_

_To the black crush of lungs, tar and poisons in the pink, _

_And the blood sorting it out, veins tight and heart slow._

-Elton Glaser, _Smoking._

_- -_

"I know it's not exactly my place to say this, but that's truly disgusting."

Gregory House was leaning sideways against the brick alley wall, a black, high-necked blazer shielding him from the biting February wind. His brow was sunk in a low, permanent furrow of bitter dislike, of resentment. _Appropriate for the season,_ James mused._ At least he's appropriate for _something, _for once_. Smoke from the Parliament twisting between two of House's fingers was seeping into the air, clouding his jawline, his cheek. He did not answer with words; instead he just shot James a curious sideways glance, eyes glinting with a strange superiority, a kind of shimmering arrogance. _His eyes. Fuck. _They, without fail, were always what made Wilson fumble, over a million things. Over his own words, his own steps, over buttons or zippers or kisses in the dark-

"And not just as a doctor. As, you know. A friend."

House let out a cheap snort of derision.

"Of course the saint from the oncology department has to provide commentary on the personal lives and habits of all of his colleagues."

Wilson flushed, returning, after a millisecond of hesitation, with a sarcastic, "Because obviously your personal life has nothing at all to do with me."

House looked away at last, the cigarette now resting between his lips once more. He spoke with it still hanging there, the orange tip tilting up and down in the darkness.

"It doesn't."

Wilson nearly choked, but he bit his tongue as House continued.

"The word personal is in there for a reason."

He spoke through gritted teeth. "Meaning?"

"Meaning that if you think it's okay for you to tell the entire hospital that you've been coming home with me for the last -What is it now? Three months?- I'd think again. Oh _yeah_. I'm sure they'd get a kick out of that one."

"I wasn't planning on-"

"Come on."

"House-"

"Let's _leave."_ He stubbed out the cigarette on the side of the building supporting him and it fluttered to the ground as he let go of it.

"I-"

"What? Do you want to _talk _or something?"

But House didn't stay for an answer; he was already walking, hunched and limping, towards the car. _Another fucking mood swing. What are we, Greg, sixteen? _With an agitated sigh, Wilson relented and followed him, slamming the door shut as he slid into the passenger seat. He knew his face was red, and for this was glad it was dark- Nearly two in the morning. A dark, foggy, two am, and this wasn't the first time he had stayed to this hour at work without needing to.

All and only for House.

As it seemed almost everything was these days.

It was embarrassing, needing someone so needy. The things House did to him, the shivers at the base of his spine, the rush of blood to his head- He had been caught in a devious, clenching awe, with no means of escape, like being in some kind of deluded alternate reality. He wondered sometimes if he had any hope at leading a normal life, ever again.

The first time they had fucked, Wilson was so terrified he didn't think any of it was real. They were on the floor of House's apartment, with a low-budget sci-fi flick voyeuristically playing in the background; forgotten, the volume of the television turned up high. An ominous cosmic theme played while Wilson gasped and shook, palms slick on the hard floor, House biting against his shoulder, panting. Afterwards, he had to guide himself to the bathroom, had to look in the mirror, had to convince himself he was actually there. _This is really me, and everything really happened._ The indentations above his collarbone should have been proof enough, along with the rough scratches on his lower back, the unnatural color in his cheeks. Somehow, despite these things, a shadowy part of his conscience still nagged at him. It refused to accept that he was pathetic (or was it proud?) enough to have sex with Gregory House.

Even after the second time, the third, the fourth, and every time after that, Wilson couldn't make himself understand any of it, not one bit. The effort he put into this one man -now sitting on his left- the hours upon hours, were absurd. The desperation, the chase. Running and running and running, and then letting himself be captured anyway. It didn't make sense. Why he willingly _chose_ to go out of his way to be degraded, be pushed around. How far he was willing to shove for the reckless anger, the anxiousness, the manic cravings. The sex. The act was more primal than anything; nothing like he'd experienced with a woman before. Nine parts animal and one part affection. A deadly concoction.

Even now, Wilson knew how it would be, that night, that morning. They would begin, here in House's car, which smelled of stale take-out and smoke, without a word. House would drive, always careless, twenty miles over the speed limit. Meanwhile Wilson would sit, knees pressing against the glove compartment, staring out the window at the grey skies beyond. Neither would say a word, never.

Wilson suddenly wanted to ask why he drove so fast, what the hurry was for, or where, (or most importantly _who) _but he swallowed the question with a gulp.

They would park outside of House's apartment complex, and both would, without saying what they were doing aloud, scan the area for anyone who might see them. Anyone who might _guess. _James would get out first, fishing a key from the glove compartment, which he would later hang up on a sloping hook beside House's front door. He'd leave all the lights on in the apartment as he went, making his way to the bedroom, or sometimes just the couch, if he was feeling particularly desperate. Wilson would take off his clothing and set them in a neat heap on the carpet, and he would wait for the door to click open once again. House would stray in, and always give James the same surprised, haughty look, before cutting the silence with a sarcastic remark directed at the naked man sitting upon his sheets, and before removing his own clothes and joining him. And afterwards, they never _talked about it _or anything so absurd that would make their contact, their intimacy take on a form other than physical. The ritual was unspoken, just like everything else they shared. And they were both content with it staying that way.

Interactions afterwards were kept to a minimum. Wilson would leave as close to immediately as possible, to (_God, the stupid things I do for this man) _walk home_._ Above all else, he would never, _ever_ spend the night. Not when it was raining. Not when it was snowing. Not when he was exhausted, or when it was late enough in the morning that the sun was coming up. Not on Fridays, or Saturdays, or even when he just _wanted _to. Never. It was inappropriate in a way he couldn't quite put into words. The notion of staying the night was absurd; because then the truth would be there, in broad daylight; evidence that something was happening between them. It made the whole act more tainted, more unclean- Because things certainly weren't the same at seven or eight in the morning as they were at midnight. Things were sharper, more embarrassing at seven or eight; it was where shame, where reality came into play. Wilson didn't spend the night because doing so meant indirectly admitting things to House that he hadn't even admitted to himself.

It meant admitting that he cared.

That particular night, frost had spread across the windows of the car, obscuring the outside world. Wilson shot the older doctor a sidelong glance, and saw that his lips were a tight, blue line of weary concentration. Silently, Wilson reached over to turn on the heat, but by the time his fingers had touched the knob, House had gripped his wrist tightly and dragged it away.

_You're kidding me, right?_

House let go, depositing the hand into Wilson's lap.

A freezing, indignant Wilson lost whatever bit of calm, of rationale he had left, and snapped, "You don't need to be the martyr all the time. It's cold, for christssakes. Turn on the heater."

House didn't flinch, didn't even take his eyes off the road.

"No."

Wilson just stared at him.

"Turn on the goddamn heater."

"No."

"What are you trying to prove? To me? To yourself? There's no one here, House."

_Except me. _

"My car, my rules. It's a no."

Wilson sat quietly for a moment, then, with a frenzied lurch, lunged, grabbing at the knob, and missing as House did the same a split second. He instead hit the radio dial and a station playing a static-y rumba echoed throughout the car, maracas and drums booming in his ear as House groped with one hand towards him once more, missing his target and falling off-balance, his entire body swaying to the right, and against Wilson's shoulder, his leg. The wheels of the blue Ford skidded across the pavement with a squeaking scream, as they swerved left, right, left. House pulled himself back up and steadied the vehicle quickly, without looking at an embarrassed and fuming Wilson, whose wrist he had somehow clawed in his grasp once more. He was now driving with just one hand, eyes on the road, going at least eighty miles per hour.

"Great plan. Run us into a ditch. That'll solve everything."

Wilson hit the radio off switch with his free hand.

"What? Don't you like the sultry song stylings of-"

"House. Shut up. Cut the crap."

House paused momentarily, looking smug. "Well, this is new. I didn't think you had it in you."

His fingers were burning against Wilson's wrist.

"Stop the car."

"My car, my rul-"

"What makes you think you can be such an ass all the time?"

"To be fair, you've never had a problem with it before."

Wilson opened his mouth to speak, but immediately shut it again, without a word.

"Still want me to stop the car? We're almost there."

He yanked his wrist away and rubbed the now-red marks there with his other hand.

"And it'd be such a waste."

For some reason, the derision was hitting him particularly hard, as Wilson sat there, limp and helpless. House made a sharp turn into the driveway, killed the engine, opened the door, and climbed out, all in under thirty seconds. And without stopping to wait, to scan the area. Wilson found himself motionless, bewildered by the disruption to normality.

"Are you coming?" House threw over his shoulder, before slamming the door.

Wilson watched him go for a while, not looking back, before he got out of the car as well. The wind slapped at his face, at his legs. Something was off-kilter tonight, and he knew it. Something was out of place.

_This should be interesting. _

- -


	2. two

This chapter rated for sex and language, m'dears. [But mostly just the sex.]

--

House was already in the kitchen by the time he caught up with him. "Have I not wounded your pride beyond repair?" He was standing in front of an open refrigerator, peering inside. "My mistake." House took a large drink from a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels and shut the door. Wilson sighed, pulling off his jacket and neatly folding it over a stool at the counter.

"You're not drinking at two in the morning, House."

He turned and they locked eyes.

_Oh, fuck. How does he do that?_

"I'll wait until three if it makes you sleep any easier."

Wilson found a sudden difficultly breathing. Somehow he managed to speak.

"Fine. Go ahead. I'm sure this will only be a footnote in the list-"

"Oh, less talk."

House put the bottle down on the linoleum countertop, now moving very quickly towards Wilson.

"-of dangerous things that you've-"

But James did not get to finish his sentence, for a second later, House had grabbed his tie in his right fist and was yanking him close- Too close, too quickly. His freezing, whisky-whetted lips smashed together with Wilson's, who immediately brought his hands to tangle in House's hair. Their tongues collided roughly, and James found his teeth pulling, biting on House's lower lip, who made a funny, growling noise in the back of his throat.

House pressed open palms onto James's chest, and tried to shove him onto the counter, but Wilson pushed back. With his hips, he forced them both in the other direction, backwards, backwards, until he heard House's skull hit the tile with a distant crack, his back was flush with the wall. Wilson's hands were low on his body now, pulling at his belt, tugging up his shirt so he could spread his palms across the plane of his stomach. House craned his neck and Wilson could feel his teeth cold against his ear; his breathing noticeably quicker than usual. The noise made him territorial, needy. _Proud,_ even. He had the strange sudden desire to shove House down onto the green tiled floor, dominate him, instead of the position he usually took during their nightly excursions. He wanted to thread his fingers through his hair, leave teeth marks along his neck, his ribs, his chest. He wanted to push him around, wanted to make him-

In one swift motion, Wilson had unzipped his pants and pressed an open palm against the visible, obvious arousal there, sliding his thumb under the fabric to press against the tip. House made a sharp noise in his throat, and, Wilson, in response, began to roughly unbutton the other man's shirt, pulling at the useless material, only wanting (_No, needing) _to get to the pale, taut skin underneath. And, without a word, House let him.

Wilson didn't understand it. Neither were drunk, neither were otherwise incapacitated, so why was House allowing…?

It was out of character, to say the least. In everything they did, House usually found a way to fight his way on top. And not just sexually either. House had to have the first word, the last word, and most of the words in between. When they argued, he made a point of proving and emphasizing that he was right, over and over again- Even when he wasn't. It wasn't just with Wilson, either; it was an open message to all he met: That he was Gregory fucking House and anyone who didn't understand the significance of that was a moron who would soon learn otherwise. There was no trumping that kind of an ego, not ever.

House had unknotted Wilson's tie, drawing it over his head and tossing it behind him before beginning to undo the top button of his shirt. One by one, he yanked them loose, desperate, until Wilson's entire torso was bare; and House began to sink down to his knees, running his teeth along the waistband of-

_What the hell is he doing?_

"Get up." Wilson heard himself saying in a voice that wasn't his. "Bed." Since when did he sound so commanding, so savage?

Feeling slightly dizzy, he caught House by the forearm and led him to the bedroom, where he closed the door behind him with a dangerous click. He removed his clothing with ease, and when he turned, House was already pulling off his own shirt. Wilson surprised himself with a sharp: "Let me do it." Without stopping to think, he had crossed to him in three quick strides, pushed House backwards onto the sheets and was shoving the clothing off his shoulders, working the cotton over his arms and discarding it, rumpled, onto the carpet.

Wilson bent down and moved his attention lower, sliding House's pants down over his thighs, careful. With every inch of skin he exposed, he dragged out a wet trail with his lips. House twitched slightly, trousers around his knees. The hands at Wilson's neck (_I didn't know House had such clammy hands) _were guiding him upwards, dragging him along House's thigh, and further. Wilson did not hesitate before the implication; he knew what House wanted. He tugged at the band of his underwear with his teeth, and swiftly yanked them to House's knees as well, before fully taking him in his mouth.

House hissed at the sudden, hot contact, and Wilson could feel fingers knotted against his scalp. The hips below him bucked slightly, needy, and he pushed them back down again, lips tugging upwards, downwards, upwards- tight, before sliding his tongue along House's length. His mouth ventured up to House's stomach, then down to his thighs, biting at the skin there. House groaned, trying to lead Wilson's lips back again, but Wilson pulled away.

"Stop it," he panted, head high as he straddled House's hips, one hand down flat against his chest. _Fuck, I call the shots here. _Wilson dipped, tongue darting viciously between House's lips, then out again, to trace patterns down his collarbone and over one nipple, than the other; and back up to kiss him deeply on the mouth. Between them, their arousals ground against each other, and Wilson pushed his hips down, forcing House deeper into the mattress, who was twisting in the sheets below him. The kiss was wet, frenzied, and Wilson had to pull up for air, whispering a breathless, "Turn over."

House did.

Wilson slid his legs over the body below him, thighs clasped tightly between his own. He dragged his hands, scratching down House's back, who let out an unexpected, shuddering moan.

_I've never heard him make that noise before._

And suddenly everything was in slow motion.

He was poised, above him, pushing gently at his entrance, unable to go any further. _Do it now. _The room was suddenly too small, too sweaty. _Do it now, it's what you've always wanted. _His hands pressed to House's sides, steadying him. _You've got him. He's letting you do whatever you want. _The skin there seemed to scald him, and he pulled away. _Take him._

Wilson didn't know what possessed him. It was something like need. Something like remorse. Something like a furious fear of the unknown.

_Do it now, do it now._

"No."

He climbed off of House and lay down beside him, kneeling, unwilling to meet his eyes.

"I-I…I didn't- I couldn't-"

_Damn it._

But House wasn't waiting for an explanation. In no time flat, he himself was atop Wilson, gripping at his hips, their bodies magnetic, electric as they slid together. Without preparation and without warning, he pushed inside him, rough, and Wilson found himself gasping helplessly into the pillow below him. _Jesus Christ. _House was rhythmic, barbaric in his friction, not stopping or slowing down, with more virility than a man his age should have had.

The more he thrust, the more the heat between them was too much for Wilson to take, and he squeezed his eyes shut, clutching at the sheets below him. House's breath seared his neck, and Wilson now could feel the pleasure building in his stomach, tight and blinding.

House came first, forcing himself even deeper inside, arms locked around his torso, choking four words against Wilson's back.

"I…knew you wouldn't."

Their bodies were so close he wasn't sure where one began and the other ended, and Wilson climaxed as well, with a muffled cry, stars exploding before his eyes.

House collapsed onto his back, fingers still grinding into the hips below him. _That's going to leave a mark. _He smeared a messy, biting kiss against Wilson's shoulder before rolling off, onto his own back. They lay there in near-silence, both still panting, until Wilson asked quietly,

"What did that mean?"

House snorted.

"Well. Since the beginning of time, man has used sex as a way to-"

"No. What you said."

"I said, 'I knew you wouldn't.' " When he peered over at him, House's expression was that of unreadable arrogance.

Wilson frowned. "Wouldn't what?"

"I knew all along you'd never- How should we put this? – Put yourself in _that position_. Even when I coaxed you into it, you still couldn't go through with it."

Wilson, now perturbed and gaping, sat up quickly. "Excuse me?"

House put on a mock-serious voice. "This has been a test of the-"

…_He didn't. _

"You bastard."

The older man turned over to the bedstand, to pull a box of cigarettes from the drawer. He lit one and leaned back onto the pillows, unaffected. "I knew you were going to say that. And now you're going to get pissed, tell me you never want to see me again; go home, furious; and then somehow show up here again this time tomorrow. Huh. It's kind of funny, if you think about it." Smoke floated in the air over the bed.

"You had this planned all along."

"Do I win bonus points if I say I came up with it on the spot?"

"You faked all the- When you- You pretended to-" Wilson leapt to his feet, unable to believe what he was hearing. "You just wanted to mess around with me."

"Don't take it so-"

"This was all just so you could prove that you're the tough one? That you're such a man? That you're stronger than everyone else?" He scoffed. "Oh, come on. Don't be such a child."

"Step one, pissiness: Complete."

Wilson stooped to pick up his pants from off the floor then stood again, unable to breathe properly. "I'm not playing your games, House. Goodbye."

"Fine."

"Fine. I'm through. I thought things were-" He swallowed and looked away. "Different."

Wilson whipped around to leave. He was just three steps away from the bedroom door when he heard House utter, so low he almost thought he imagined it: "Then stay."

He froze.

"The night."

_It's just a dare; he doesn't mean it. _

"If- If you want things to be different, stay the night."

_Then why does he sound so strangled?_

"…_James_."

Astonished, he slowly turned round to face him. "You haven't called me that in years."

House did not respond, unable to meet his eyes. He stubbed the lit cigarette into an ashtray teetering on the edge of the nightstand. Wilson noticed that his fingers were visibly shaking, even from that far away.

Wilson dropped the clothing in his fist and moved steadily towards the bed. Then, without another word, gently crawled in beside him. House had turned away, now lying on his side, and switched off the dull remaining lamplight, plunging them into darkness. Wilson drew the sheets overtop of both of them, and shifted closer, closer to the body beside him. He pressed one open palm against the small of his back, and felt House tense at the touch. "You're okay," he breathed, out of instinct more than anything else, and was surprised when he felt the stiffness lessen ever so slightly. He slid his fingertips down along House's ribs, coasting over his hipbone and down along his stomach to wrap strong arms around him; to hold him tight against his own body.

"You could have just asked in the first place, you know," he whispered.

"That's not my style."

Wilson smiled wryly into his back, drawing him nearer. House did not pull away. "I suppose it isn't." Placing a tender kiss against House's shoulder-blade, Wilson could not suppress a yawn. "Goodnight." He paused for a split second before adding a soft, cautious, "Love you, Greg."

He did not expect a reply, but a moment later, out of the darkness came a barely audible: "You too. James."

Wilson smiled again, letting his eyes droop closed. Tomorrow morning was ages away, and they'd just have to face it together when it arrived.

- -

can haz reviews?


	3. three

_A/N: I'd only planned to make this two chapters, but it was so well-received that I thought I'd try and continue it, even though a multi-chapter piece wasn't my original intent. Hope you enjoy it; although this one's kind of on the short side._

- -

Wilson muttered a quick apology as he hurried past Cuddy, who looked up in surprise, but Wilson refused to make eye contact. It felt as though his steps were too noisy as they clicked down the hallway, and surely, surely, _surely _everyone was staring at him. Ten am, and he could feel his skin baking, an ache growing in his temple. He brought a weary hand to his forehead, pinching between his eyes and taking a deep breath. Breathing was key here, as was keeping a steady walking pace and contained expression; not falling over onto the floor or revealing the secrets burning in his throat. In and out, in and out, steady. If it was human instinct, why was it so difficult?

It struck him as slightly cruel that something like tangling with House in the dark of night was easier, required less thought and less consideration than something necessary like breathing or walking did. That is, unless having House to kiss and fuck was just as necessary, just as vital as the things he did every day. Unless House, himself, he thought with a shudder, was necessary. Something he, Wilson, was dependent on, fed off of. Unless sex could now be lumped into the same category as breathing or walking.

_Not anymore. Not with him, anyway. _

Wilson couldn't pinpoint what was so disturbing to him about the relationship. But he knew it came from the fact that it wasn't a relationship at all. A series of unconnected trysts, never spoken of again after the fact. What did that add up to? What did that mean? It didn't mean love, despite the words that had unexpectedly spilled from House's lips the previous night.

And suddenly, at the memory of the broken words, Wilson felt his face burning red. Thankful that he had at last reached his office, he still kept his head turned down as he closed and locked the door behind him. _Safe,_ he thought to himself, then felt thoroughly stupid for doing so.

The last half hour had been a blur. He remembered waking up with the sun soaking through the curtains, and groaning as he simultaneously realized that he was both late for work and alone. Not to mention in House's apartment, in House's bed. Ironically, with no House present. There had been a combination of panic and regret upon the discovery of this fact. _Shit. I didn't really- We didn't really- No, it never-_

But his clothing, still lying on the floor, told otherwise.

_Aw, Christ. _

With no more than a few minutes' searching, he learned that the whole apartment was empty, no traces that anything illicit and newfound had occurred the night before. Wilson didn't know if he should be grateful or horrified at this, only that the prospect of facing work, facing human contact, facing _him_ ever again seemed suddenly absurdly insurmountable.

_He didn't stay. He asked me to stay, then couldn't be bothered to stay, himself. _And Wilson wasn't surprised, not in the slightest.

So it was a mistake, Wilson thought to himself, now sitting in his office, now fidgeting with a pen that had been left lying on his desk from the night before. A mistake to let himself go, to say those things. Embarrassment, plain and simple. He was a teenager again, sweaty-palmed and tongue-tied. And feeling sorry for himself, as if this time was the only time that mattered in the world. As if the rest of his life would be shaped by telling House he loved him, by waking up alone.

_I didn't really mean that, did I?  
_Wilson knew the answer; the words had been scalding his throat for weeks and weeks, aching to be uttered aloud. And now that they had, he wished he could swallow them once more. Sure, intimacy meant opening yourself up to the possibility that you might get hurt. But that didn't have to happen _every time. _In the beginning, _every time, _in its own way, was supposed to be different, but somehow, somewhere ended up taking a wrong turn down some alleyway marked "Heartbreak" and coming to a dead end. House was just one more dead end, unless he stopped it now. 

- -

It was past midnight when Wilson finally drew up the certainty and courage to leave the hospital.

Heart pounding, Wilson walked through the double sliding doors and around the corner, just to see. And, without fail, there stood House, leaning against the wall, impassive and distant until their eyes locked and Wilson felt slightly faint, much to his embarrassment. They stared at each other for a minute or so, and just as Wilson thinks House is about to speak, about to break the air with something caustic and shameful, something to ridicule him with, Wilson founds himself saying, "No, " once, then twice, as he turned and walked away. A third time, to himself, quieter, and a forth as he buttoned the top button of his jacket. Over and over again, he repeated the syllable maybe ten or twenty times on the trek home, and as Wilson reached his own apartment, a tight feeling building in his throat, he considered the possibility that he is thoroughly losing his mind.

Or even, that he lost it long, long ago.

- -


End file.
